Before You Wake
by Xalthir
Summary: [Violence] A land of Lords is slowly being brought to its knees by the crippling disease of insanity as hollowing starts to take hold of the world's long immortal occupants. Now the undying humans are sought as a potential cure for this rot, for the Lords perish when they pass. This is the tale of a human who defied that fate. This is the tale of Knight Ciaran.


**I don't usually post stuff at the top of my stories, but I'm doing this here so I can just put a fair warning up. I am taking a lot of liberties with assumed lore and my own personal beliefs on the series story. I will use a lot of headcannons and it will not be 100% accurate to what happened, though it will loosely follow the storyline.**

 **That said I hope you enjoy the story for what it is and look forward to the next chapter.**

 **- _Xalthir_**

* * *

The westward winds blew in from over the mountain tops and fluttered down like swooping birds. They were heated as they passed a great expanse and danced the river's crook, their warming hands stroking the Burg in its already blistering state. Men and women alike groaned and panted in the fervidity as their hands worked the powerful tools to cleave the land. Long rows were marked out along the fields and humans toting pails of water rocked aimlessly from side to side, splashing it across the buried seeds.

Ciaran felt sweat roll down her brow, brushing over a gently oozing wound on her forehead. It stung. A soil covered hand ground itself against the abrasion and that only made it worse. With a pained sigh escaping her lips, her hands hit the dirt. Fiercely she returned to her task of digging up the roots that had planted themselves so firmly near their crops.

It was her duty, she supposed, to wallow in this mud. Her duty as a human. That was their fate as the 'Blessed' people they were. Suffering beneath the plague of the accursed Darksign. No, they could not die, they would only be reborn by the breath of a coiled flame. A bonfire. The thought had her hissing through her teeth.

Perfect workers, the Lords had said. Yes, she remembered that with perfect clarity.

Her family had crawled out of the ashes below the first world, smoke and soot coating everything in the wake of the Lords. She remembered her trembling hands too and the sight of the dragons as they were annihilated by bursts of focused light. Stone debris rolled off the trees there across the lake of ash and bodies of ancient beasts plummeted from the firmament, into the drink.

She swallowed.

Then the Lords found them. Humans.

They came at first as foes and a battle was fought with broken bones and lightning. Honed by war the Lords were greater warriors than the humans could ever hope to be, but they persisted and in that persistance found their gift.

The Darksign.

It was a blessing from some awful god that did not allow them to die where the lords themselves would fall. That endless life that they pushed back with was what started the discussion of peace, the idea of freedom, and, her jaw tensed, the all to agonizing bite of betrayal.

Her arm coiled and she grunted. A particularly stubborn weed came loose, bones tangled in its roots. She spared them a mirthless glance and then tossed them aside, she'd only be making a spectacle if she acted surprised. People died out here all the time. This was nothing new.

The Lords had taken them in as equals for a time, but as time passed the Lords saw a disturbing illness corrode their numbers. Though they were immortal they were plagued by an awful rotting that would encompass their mortal form and then tear their soul away, leaving only the husk.

In a violent attempt to discover if this was the human's doing they struck out against the once allied people. Another small war occurred and once again the opposition was not strong enough to allow for ground, despite death's clear inability to touch them.

After this battle things did not go well for the humans. The Lords saw them as a threat and something to be studied. The apparent 'hollowing', as it was dubbed by Seath, that the Lords suffered from was not affecting the Humans. That meant, eventually, that mankind would rise up to a status and overthrow the Lords.

The natural decision was to work them to the bone.

Opposition _did_ exist for the slavery they were confined to, but it was much less active. Perhaps with most wallowing in the filth the time was simply not allowed with which to scheme.

The corners of Ciaran's mouth rose, that had never stopped her.

Loudly a bell tolled over the fields and people brought themselves from their work and turned their heads. Heavy satchels and tools were largely dropped wherever the user happened to be standing. Stretching figures and malnourished bodies started their way towards a series of carts that would distribute food and water to the humans, but not nearly enough for everyone. "Break time!" shouted a voice that rolled across the humid wind.

Ciaran hurriedly dusted off her hands on her pants and got to her feet, sprinting off and away from the crowd, headed towards the tool shed that stood sentry at the edge of the fields. Her hands clawed at the door until she found the handle and she gave it a harsh tug, the wood screaming its protests.

The gleam of something metal played in her vision and she beamed, leaning down and drawing out the two daggers she'd bought from the late-day merchants. They weren't impressive, but they were hers and she loved to dance with them.

Break would end in fifteen minutes so she quickly slammed the shed door and trounced off to practice her craft.

There was a room in the southern buildings, the unused stores, that she found suitable for such movement. Every day before, during, and after work she could be found here stuffing hay into shredded clothes and setting them up on poles to serve as targets.

Forms came naturally, her stances and footwork inspired by years of hard labor in the sun and learning how to lift more than twice her weight when need be. Her toes gracefully scraped the jagged wood of the floorboards and she closed her eyes, sucking in air through her nose.

With a subtle twist of her shoulders she span, taking a step, and then loosing the posture to strike the stuffed doll.

Hay burst forth scattering across the floor, some of it catching in the slight draft and fluttering out the window. She let the hilts of her daggers roll against her palms, taking in their weight, their texture. Her mind wandered.

There had never been a point in her life where she'd been content to sit still and let the world abuse her. On the contrary, she'd always been a fighter. At a young age her father had locked her inside to keep her safe while he went to work the fields. She had spent all day assembling chairs and pushing the tables together so that she could reach the lock.

Right as she was about to flip the bolt and push the door ajar, her father returned and nearly knocked her off her perch. He told her years later that he had never been so furious and undeniably proud at the same time.

A sheepish grin crept across her face, she missed her father.

With a snap she came back to reality. The loud bell that beckoned them back to the fields echoed out. She eyed the blades in her hands a moment longer and headed back to work, stopping only to put them away safely.

The next few days were without variation. Waking up from a restless sleep to the sound of bells on the wind.

She'd often get her braid together the night before but if it was nearing the dusk when she got home she'd wake before the toll. In the pale morning light cresting the mountains she'd get her hair together. This was time Ciaran cherished, a moment to herself with only the wind's soft whisper as company.

This was one such morning, her fingers knotted in blonde strands that went far past her chest. She braided them patiently, observing the sky outside of her window. It was painted a pale pink with orange highlights in volatile streaks. Wispy clouds trailed by that looked more like leaves on a distant wind than the dominating forms that often rolled across the sky. The beautiful sights were accompanied by a cool breeze that carried salt from the sea. If she breathed in deeply enough she could smell it.

Her eyes fell shut and finished her braid, standing to dress. Nothing but ransack clothing to wear, but she did her best to keep it in good shape. Other members of the burg would wander out almost naked, their lust for life nearly gone in the working day. It was how her father had passed.

She left her home quickly when she was done, shutting the door behind her with her foot. Down the steps she went and then off and across the twisting trail that took her into the burg.

A few others were up, but nobody she knew personally. In fact she knew virtually no one. When she had built her house she intentionally did so away from the citizenship. The passing of her father had caused her to make a point to keep out of the way of others for fear that the loss of their presence in her life would drive her hollow. Grief had no mercy, it had claimed many before.

Her hand hit the wooden fence guarding the fields and it followed the rotting wood all the way to the gate. She pushed it open with a hip and then made her way back to where she had left off yesterday. Technically they could work the humans all day and night, but the Lords had tried that before with limited success. The rate of hollowing was far too high for them to get anything beneficial from the practice. She toyed with the realization that the only way they were shown any decency was if it lowered the value they had to the Lords.

Still it was something, and she'd never known anything else. Though that didn't leave her blind. She noticed the Lords when they came to visit the burg in their mighty armor, looking down at the humans tending their fields. The humans that fed them.

She ground her palm into the dirt, tugging the roots up more harshly than she intended. They snapped early and she had to use her fingertips to remove what was left behind. That impatient anger had to go. It wasn't practical, she reasoned.

No.

That anger must become focused and more precise.

She felt sweat roll down her brow as the humidity settled over the crops. Morning was in full swing and her thoughts were lost to the sounds of tools steadily tilling nearby.


End file.
